Regular readers will probably be aware that if anyone’s keeping the UK retail economy afloat, it’s not me. The combination of a fairly frugal nature, a desire not to throw things away when they’re still usable, and (if I’m really honest) the ability to put off until tomorrow what really needed to be done today makes me a reluctant shopper. So you won’t be surprised to discover that, two and a half years since I was told that the Brompton back tyre needed replacing, and about six months since it developed a regular slow puncture, and approximately three months since I arranged with the bike shop that if I sorted out ordering a Brompton tyre, they would happily replace it for me (look, it’s a hub gear, it’s the rear wheel, and anything to do with a Brompton is extra fiddly) I have done nothing except look online at Brompton tyres, realised that I had to decide between various different types, gone ‘how much?!’ at the price of any of them and decided to sort it out another day.

So when our road was looking like this,* I have absolutely nobody but myself to blame when I got precisely 100 yards down the road yesterday before my Brompton’s back tyre went completely flat (it’s never a good sign when you try pumping it up and you can see the air bubbling out of the tyre in multiple places). This was unfortunate as I was on my way to catch the bus to catch the train to get to Embra for two different meetings which were more than two miles apart and for which a Brompton would have been very handy. Having had to route march a combined distance of almost 4 miles to make it to a meeting and then catch the last train home, I was pretty weary when the train finally pulled in.

Still, at least this has made my mind up to get the Marathon Pluses for the Brompton. They may not be entirely thorn proof, but they have proved a lot better than anything else. Especially if you can get someone else to fit them. Although that said, it was snowing last night and our drive looked like this this morning so it might actually be time for the winter spikes …

There’s a joke among cyclists that the ideal number of bikes is N+1, where N is the number of bikes the cyclist already owns. On the whole, I’ve resisted this tendency and have stuck with my two – the big bike and the Brompton – without too many envious glances at other people’s steeds. This is partly because I don’t do that many different kinds of riding, so I don’t need multiple bikes, combined with the aforementioned frugality and sheer idleness. But it’s also because I know that if I started multiplying the number of bikes I had then the ideal number would indeed be N+1, where N was the number of bikes I had sitting unrideable in the garage while awaiting some minor but fiddly repair …

* As I set out gingerly on the big bike (with the ice and snow mostly melted) to brave the Bastard Big Thorns on the way to get the paper today, I was greeted by the sight of the two farmers from down the road, carefully sweeping all the hedgecuttings up by hand. This actually made me feel quite bad (I had had a bit of a moan yesterday after the Brompton puncture even though it was largely my fault) although not so bad that I didn’t let them get on with it.

I’ve long argued that the rural economy around here runs largely on tray bakes and our local summer bike rides are no exception – since we’ve started providing home baking as part of the package, numbers have gone from strength to strength.

There’s just one problem: much as I love my cow pannier bag, it’s exactly the wrong shape for carrying cake tins, so everything I bake has had to be robust enough to handle being stuffed into it sideways. There’s a reason why cyclists are so fond of flapjacks, which are effectively indestructible. This week, though, I was experimenting with iced lemon cupcakes* which meant a more civilised conveyance was required. I’m pleased to report that the cakes made it down intact, and the leftovers were also safely carried back up the hill to home, where I suspect they will not last long.

A visit to my parents this weekend gave us a chance to reunite the Brompton with a comrade in arms.

My parents had gone to visit friends of theirs in the next village along, so we pedalled out to join them for a cup of coffee and to swap tips on gardening (they’ve been using old carpets on their veg bed for 30 years and it’s not done them any harm), sci fi (they were very keen on the Martian, although mainly from the potato growing angle) and linux distributions (no idea – when I want a hobby instead of an operating system, I will put linux on my laptop).

The route there takes you past a ford, although what use a ford is without a measuring gauge, I don’t know.

Still, for those of you getting ford withdrawal symptoms, I post this here for what it’s worth.

Although to be honest, it’s not all that handy with a wallpaper stripper (although it is rather decorative).

Wallpaper. Why?

Now that we’ve got the keys to the house and started to take stock, it is revealing itself (in the words of the other half) as a magical box that contains an infinite number of DIY projects. He’s been working away at it fairly solidly but I’ve had a few other engagements which has made it helpful to be able to throw the Brompton in the boot of the car when we go up to the new house so that I can then ride off into town for meetings as needed.

Downhill all the way

And I say ‘up to the new house’ advisedly. The direct route from the new house into Bigtown is a splendid no-need-to-turn-a-pedal downhill run complete with a prevailing tailwind. Riding home in the future may turn out to be a bit of a challenge…

…That as bus route straplines go (and since when did bus routes start having their own straplines?), ‘Where every journey is an adventure’ is precisely what I want out of a bus journey, but that may be why I’m not in bus marketing.

Fortunately there were no unexpected adventures for the Brompton and me as we made our way multimodally from Duns to home. By car this is a 2.5 hour drive, 3 hours if you stop for coffee in Moffat. By public transport this meant a 45 minute drive to Galashiels, 2 hour bus ride to Carlisle, 40 minute wait, 45 minute train journey to Bigtown and a 45 minute cycle home (OK, so maybe that was a bit of an adventure).

Still it made for excellent progress on my sock, which has been sadly hampered by my failure to get selected for jury service earlier this month.

Alert readers may remember I de-nosed my Brompton saddle back in March which is hardly any time at all in bike-maintenance weeks, especially when I don’t normally ride the Brompton much when I’m at home, and besides the de-nosed Brompton saddle has been proving surprisingly rideable, at least when the alternative is figuring out how to fit a new saddle.

But I had been fortunate enough to receive a lovely new Brooks B17 from my mum for my birthday. All I had to do was order a Pentaclip to attach the saddle to the seatpost, which took me longer than I’d thought because they turn out to cost *how much* and by *how much* I mean far more than you’d expect to pay for something that is called a clip that doesn’t come qualified with the word ‘diamond’.* But I need the Brompton for POP next weekend and I wanted to look its best so last week I finally brought myself to shell out, the Pentaclip duly arrived and – with dire warnings about what happens if you allow the Pentaclip to disassemble itself spontaneously ringing in my ears – I persuaded the other half to affix it to the saddle, while I Proofided the leather and generally admired it as a thing of beauty and hopefully a joy forever.

Yesterday I was up against a bit of a work deadline but I did have to go and get the paper and the sun had briefly emerged so I thought it might be an opportunity to try out my new saddle. I know that Brooks saddles have a bit of a reputation for being hard work to break in but my other one had been comfy from day one, so I wasn’t too worried, although it is a different model. I got the Pentaclip onto the Brompton seatpost with no trouble at all – which in itself was slightly concerning – and set off to ride the five miles or so to …

Nope

Oh no, that isn’t right at all.

Yikes.

I *think* it’s just the rake – and come to think of it, it took a few goes to sort out the rake on my old one – but I didn’t have time to do the painstaking adjustments required to sort it out so the Brompton went back in the shed and I settled myself comfortably into the embracing leather hammock that is the saddle on my other bike. Ah, like coming home …

Hopefully I will have time to get this sorted before Saturday or I’ll have to do the whole of POP – cobbles and all – standing up …

There are no trains to Edinburgh at the moment because storm Andrea or Billy or Fred or whoever damaged a key viaduct on the West Coast Mainline* so that meant taking a three-hour bus trip from Bigtown, which is not my favourite way to travel although I have to admit it is scenic in parts

The bus stopped half way at a service station in case anybody needed a comfort break, and also so that the bus driver could emerge from her cab and reminisce with the other passengers (clearly regulars) about the night they all got stuck in the snow going over the Dalveen Pass.

the Dalveen Pass

Once in Edinburgh, there were other, rather more civilised conveyances on offer, although I decided to stick to the Brompton.

Then it was on to the East Coast Mainline to Berwick. I had half an hour to kill before an appointment and spent it enjoying the winter sunshine.

Hopefully Storm Ignatius or Jason or Xerxes or whoever is next will leave this viaduct intact.

* and can I just pause here to have a small moan about the fact that when the Forth Road Bridge was closed for a couple of weeks before Christmas you would have thought that civilisation was on the verge of collapse as Scotland’s entire transport network was severed at a blow, whereas we’ve now been without a train connection except for the scenic but not exactly speedy single track line up to Glasgow since 2015 and where are our emergency debates in Parliament? Not sure whether it’s because it’s just trains and everyone knows that important people go around in cars, or because it’s Bigtownshire and nobody else in Scotland has noticed, but either way…